


familiarity breeds contempt (but also fosters a bond)

by spale_vosver



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Birthday, Fluff and Angst, Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, Trans Jonah Magnus, Waltzing, mild introspection, no beta we die like mordechai lukas in a shipwreck, rated Teen for mild references to sex, trans author, yet another gift fic for the Jonah server!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:42:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25252543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spale_vosver/pseuds/spale_vosver
Summary: Simon Fairchild pays Jonah a visit on his hundredth birthday. Jonah appreciates it more than he'll ever admit.
Relationships: Simon Fairchild/Jonah Magnus
Comments: 10
Kudos: 20
Collections: Associated Articles Regarding One Jonah Magnus





	familiarity breeds contempt (but also fosters a bond)

**Author's Note:**

> So! Yet another gift fic for the Jonah server! Once again, I adore all of your fics, you magnificent bastards. I decided to forego using the name Giovanni for Simon, as I wanted to make the fic my own, and so I've chosen the name Ambrogio--it's Italian, it means immortal, and it works for plot related reasons. This is mostly fluff, but with some light angst regarding the passage of time and Mordechai Lukas's death. As stated in the tags, this is rated Teen for mild sexual references (there's a joke, and a mention of arousal) but nothing explicit. With that out of the way, I hope you enjoy 
> 
> (Also this fic was absolutely inspired by A Waltz For Eva And Che from the musical Evita. Seriously look it up if you haven't seen it. It's amazing)

Jonah frowns as he tugs the bay window shut; he’d been holed up in his study, filling out some long-overdue paperwork, when he’d heard the thing slam open. He’s still not  _ entirely _ sure how it was opened either, considering it was (at least, as far as he remembers) securely locked, and it’s not particularly rainy or windy outside, save for a slight breeze. He curses this body’s lack of upper arm strength as he finally manages to get it shut and locked up again, and lets out a relieved sigh.

Then he screams.

There’s a second reflection in the window.

Trying--and failing--to center himself, he sucks in a deep breath, and closes his eyes; surely it’s his imagination. He  _ is _ a bit sleep deprived, after all, paperwork will do that to a man, and the right lighting rarely shies away from optical trickery. When he opens his eyes again, it will be gone, he’s sure.

It isn’t gone.

Jonah tugs his bottom lip into his mouth, weighing the options. He’s not nearly physically strong enough to take on whatever’s in his house should it prove hostile, and he’s left his revolver upstairs. All the same, though, it’s stayed put, and doesn’t seem particularly interested in him. After a quick once-over, he finds that he’s not even got his pocket knife on him--when did he become so careless? He swallows down the spit that’s been pooling in his mouth, and, with really no other choice, he turns around.

_ “Buon compleanno _ , Bo!”

Ambrogio Ventimiglia, in the flesh.   
  
He’s sporting his classically obnoxious grin, as always, and his hair and tailcoat look a bit mussed, like he’s been out in the wind; he’s got new lines on his face, too, and is a good bit older than he was when last Jonah saw him.

Jonah scowls.

“Breaking into my house as usual, I see,” he huffs, and quickly crosses the floor to cross his arms and glare up at him. “Can’t have knocked like a reasonable man?” That makes Ambrogio laugh, and  _ God _ , it’s still just as loud and hyena-esque as ever. 

“I could have, yes, but if I’d knocked, I’d have ruined the surprise!”   
  
“Surprise- you nearly scared me to  _ death _ , you bastard!”   


Ambrogio pouts and “aw”s at that, and it somehow makes Jonah fume even more. It’s a bit remarkable, really: no other man--well, save for maybe Clark Sullivan, but the less he thinks about him, the better--is able to bring his temper to a boiling point this easily. Were he not approximately ten seconds from punching the taller man in his smug face, he might even be impressed. 

“My apologies, Bo, really,” he says, and there he goes again, using that- that awful nickname he’s so fond of. 

Bo, somehow, is a shortening of Ambrose, Jonah’s first name. Upon realizing just how insufferable Ambrogio really was, he decided to forego its use and adopted the name Jonah instead. Ambrogio, in all his bastardry, decided to give him that nickname, and despite his protest, it stuck. 

“You didn’t think I was going to miss your hundredth birthday, now did you?”

That has Jonah a bit confused, before he considers it, and--yes, it  _ is _ June Thirteenth, isn’t it? Huh. Funny, that. 

“Of course,” Ambrogio continues, looking him up and down, “you certainly don’t look it. How old’s that body of yours? Twenty five? Twenty six?”   
  
“Twenty-nine,” Jonah tells him, and sits down on the windowsill with a noise of exasperation, swinging his legs up so that the other man can’t sit next to him. “Thirty in September.” Ambrogio’s grin shifts to a look of interest, and despite his clear indication that he  _ did not want company _ , he shoves Jonah’s legs aside and sits by him anyway. 

“That young, huh? Must be odd to shave in the morning and not find any new grey hairs--well, not that you could grow much in the way of facial hair to begin with. Oh! Speaking of, and forgive my rudeness-” Jonah barks a laugh at that “-but how’s that body in terms of equipment?”   
  
“You’ve just dropped by and you already want me to undress? Goodness,  _ no _ manners!” That makes Ambrogio laugh again, and this time, Jonah joins him. “But, for the sake of feeding your curiosity, it’s anatomically male. Quite hairless, too, thank God.”   
  
“Right, right,” he says, and mimes a stroke to a beard that isn’t there. “Your last body was more of a walking forest than he was a man, wasn’t he? Quite a bit like Mordechai-”   
  
Jonah shoots him a sharp glare. He doesn’t want to think about Mordechai Lukas in any capacity, and hasn't wanted to for nearly seven decades, because thinking about Mordechai means thinking about that January, thinking about that letter, thinking about how he’d given the man a kiss goodbye before his last voyage and told him that he’d not mourn him if he died from doing anything stupid, because really a sailor ought to know better, thinking about how God,  _ God _ , he hadn’t meant that at all, thinking about-

Ambrogio catches on, mercifully, and drops the subject, apologies and acknowledgements of his forgetfulness spilling from his lips. Jonah mumbles his forgiveness under his breath, but he doesn’t mean it, not really. There’s a silence that Jonah wishes he could appreciate considering how rare a thing his companion’s silence is, and he sighs again, sliding his hands against his thighs as a sort of space-filler. 

“So,” he finally says after what has to be at least five minutes of no talking whatsoever. “Are you done here? Surely you’ve got more planned than just waltzing into my house and-”   
  
Ambrogio’s eyes light up, and Jonah knows he’s made a big mistake with his word choice.

“Waltzing in, you say? A birthday waltz! What a lovely idea, Bo, I hadn’t even considered that!” He quickly stands and offers his hand, which Jonah refuses.    
  
“Absolutely not. I am tired, it is night, and I am  _ not _ waltzing with you.” 

Ambrogio pouts in an attempt to sway him to his side, and maybe it would have worked had Basil Gallagher, pushover extraordinaire, still been the owner of this body, but Jonah’s a bit too thick-skinned for that.

“You really think pleading eyes are going to work? I’m not a fool, Ambrogio.”

Eventually, though, whittled down by Ambrogio’s pleads and his own tiredness (God, does he ever just want this man to leave), he does take his hand, and- oh. That’s nice. Truth be told, he’s not waltzed in decades, and he’s forgotten just how intimate it is: hand in hand, his hand on Ambrogio’s shoulder, Ambrogio’s hand on his waist. It’s- it’s nice.

“I’ll take it slowly, alright?”    
  
And, to his credit, he does. The first spin into the dance is a bit daunting, and Jonah finds himself stealing glances at the floor to make sure his footwork isn’t off, but he falls into the rhythm fairly easily, remembering countless dances with debutantes hoping to win his favor, blissfully unaware of his true preferences. There is a fair bit of difference, especially considering this is the first time he’s taken the- well, he’s loath to say female role, but- the  _ female _ role. 

He’s not expecting Ambrogio to twirl him, and he doesn’t do it quite right the first time, but the second time he tries, he loosens up considerably, and completes the move with ease.

“See? You’re doing wonderfully. And to think, just moments ago you were whining about how it was  _ late _ , Ambrogio, and you were  _ tired _ , Ambrogio, and to  _ get out of my house _ , Ambrogio.”   


Jonah huffs at that, but can’t hide a small smile. He’ll not admit it to anyone, least of all his partner, but he has missed this sense of familiarity, of constancy. Immortality is a difficult thing, really, and there’s always going to be a bit of sadness in his heart that the world he once knew is long gone. Now there are telegraphs, and telephones, and audio recording devices, and automobiles; gone are the midsummer nights spent stargazing at the Moorland House with Mordechai Lukas, gone are the jostling carriage rides with Barnabas Bennett that left the two of them debauched and breathless, gone are years and years of time spent with friends, lovers, enemies. The past is, for lack of a better word, past, but having Ambrogio here makes it feel just that much less distant.

“And what are you thinking about in that brilliant little mind of yours?”   
  
“Was my introspection that obvious?”   
  
Ambrogio chuckles, and Jonah wishes he could bottle that sound and keep it forever. 

“No matter whose skin you wear, it is still you underneath. Jonah Magnus, I would know your tells in a hundred different bodies.”   
  
“A hundred? Don’t give me ideas, now.”   
  
And they keep on at it, the rhythm constant, familiar. Jonah finds his tiredness washed clean away; all that exists now is the two of them and their dance, and were he not so restless, he’d be perfectly content to stay like this. The two of them do begin to slow after a while, the music that isn’t playing coming to an end, and, after they have both stilled, they stand there, drinking in each other’s presence, breathing softly yet loudly. 

It would be the easiest thing, Jonah thinks, to reach up and kiss him, to close the gap in between them and in his heart and in his body. He licks at his lips involuntarily, reflexively, and Ambrogio, self-proclaimed master face-reader that he is, closes that gap. 

It’s rough and gentle and passionate and sweet and taking and giving at the same time. Jonah’s eyes flutter shut, and he gasps a bit as he’s pulled closer by the hand on his hip. His own hand, still resting on Ambrogio’s shoulder, wanders up to cup at the man’s face. When they part, they are both smiling, and this time it’s Jonah who closes the gap, and it’s familiar and wonderful and comforting and constant and perfect. 

After God knows how many kisses, Jonah has to shove the other man away, because if he was ten seconds away from punching him before, he’s about five seconds away from an unfortunate hard-on now, and, much as he loves kissing, he’s  _ sure _ he’s too tired for any of that tonight. Ambrogio, again, gets the hint, and smiles down at him.

“So, the big hundred, then,” he muses. “How’s it feel?”   
  
“Odd,” Jonah admits. “Not like I thought it would. I’m in a new body, but...I’m still me.”   
  
“That’s about how it felt for me, too. Of course, my own big hundred was a few centuries ago, so I might just be forgetting in my old age.”   
  
“Miracle you didn’t forget me,” he jokes, and God, the smile Ambrogio gives him in that moment could make the sternest man melt, he’s sure. He pulls him into a--thankfully wholesome--hug, and, with full sincerity, he says:

“Darling, how could I ever forget you?”

**Author's Note:**

> Additional Notes:  
> -Jonah's birthday is June 13th, 1794. Yes, that makes his birthday a Friday the 13th. Yes, that was on purpose.
> 
> (Also comments are very much appreciated--I love hearing feedback)


End file.
